


31 Days

by WanderingAlice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Background Newt/Anathema, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, I did not realize I was capable of writing something this soft, M/M, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, background Madame Tracy/Sergeant Shadwell, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingAlice/pseuds/WanderingAlice
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale celebrate their first Holiday Season as free agents after the apoca-not. Crowley pines. Aziraphale plots. They have 31 days before New Years, and Aziraphale is determined to share a New Year's kiss with Crowley as his lover.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 92





	1. Day 1 - Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what's wrong with me. I'm writing fluff. Like. Sure, there's pining. But it's _soft_ pining. 
> 
> I might not be able to get every day this month, but I'm going to try. It might spill over into January though.

When Crowley hangs the mistletoe above the door of their South Downs cottage, he’s not thinking of Aziraphale. He’s thinking about Newt and Anathema standing there, Newt blushing as Anathema kisses him. He’s thinking of the Them teasing Shadwell and Madame Tracy until they reluctantly kiss. How Shadwell will turn bright red and how pleased Madame Tracy will look. He’s thinking about his friends, and holiday traditions, and everything he’s never had the luxury of experiencing before. There is light in his life now. Laughter. Joy. Even, dare he hope, love.

Aziraphale laughs when he sees it. “Really dear?” he asks, standing well back from the bright red and green branches.

“It’s Christmas. Mistletoe is _traditional_ , angel. I thought you were all about tradition. I mean-” he gestures to the rest of the cottage, which is absolutely _covered_ in garland, candles, tinsel and bells. There’s even a tree - the biggest one they’d been able to get through the door, draped in lights and sparkling ornaments.

The angel looks around him, taking in the room they had just spent the entire morning decorating. “Well. I just… I mean. It’s our first Christmas together. I want to get it right.”

Crowley’s smile softens at that, and he climbs down from the ladder to stand next to Aziraphale. “Yeah,” he says. He knows what his angel means. It’s the first time they’ve ever been able to celebrate together, even as friends. Usually they would have been extra busy during this season, when the demands for miracles is the highest. He could wish for _another_ sort of ‘together’, but he’ll take what he can get. Just being here with the angel is a step forward. He doesn’t want to move too fast. It’s only been a few months since the end of the world that didn’t happen. Only a few months of freedom, after six thousand _years_ of holding back. He won’t ruin this just because he’s damn impatient.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “Well, I think you did a good job angel.”

Aziraphale blushes and looks away. “ _We_ did a good job,” he insists.

_We_. Crowley hides the warmth that bubbles up within him at that. We. Just hearing that feels incredible. Their own side. Asking for anything more feels… greedy. Like tempting fate to take it all away.

Newt and Anathema arrive first. When they walk in the door together, Crowley grins at them from his spot on the couch. “Ah-” he says, when they start to enter the room, pointing at the mantle.

Anathema gives him her must unamused look. “Really? Mistletoe?”

“It’s tradition,” Crowley tells her. “Plus, it’s a parasite. Seems like something a demon should decorate with, doesn’t it?”

She rolls her eyes. “You can _not_ be expecting everyone to kiss under it.”

He shrugs, grinning mischievously. “Not the kids. But you two? Yeah.” He stands up, moving to block their way into the house. “You don’t kiss, you don’t come in.”

“Oh. Um.” To his surprise, it’s _Anathema_ who turns red, glancing at Newt with a shy smile.

“Come here then,” Newt says, stepping close. He’s _also_ turning a healthy shade of crimson, but he puts a hand on her cheek and leans in. She meets him halfway, and suddenly the surge of _love_ coming from the pair makes the demon take a step back. His gaze turns to Aziraphale, who is watching the humans with a wistful sort of expression on his face.

The pair breaks apart, lips kiss-reddened and breathless, and Crowley stamps down on an irrational surge of jealousy, stepping aside to let them in.

Madame Tracey actually notices the mistletoe before she enters the cottage, raising an eyebrow at Crowley, who raises one right back. She stands in the doorway, waiting for Sergeant Shadwell to follow her up the steps, then grabs him by the jacket and pulls him down for a kiss. Crowley whoops while Anathema wolf-whistles, laughing. It takes the older pair far longer to break apart, and when they do Shadwell seems incapable of sentient thought. The Them, arranged around the tree with mugs of cocoa, make gagging sounds. Pepper rolls her eyes, and claims she wouldn’t be caught _dead_ under mistletoe. Adam points out that she’ll have to go under it to get out of the cottage, and she glares at him, threatening to climb out a window instead.

Fortunately, Aziraphale arrives with a plate of cookies, effectively ending the argument before it really gets started. Once the kids are distracted, they all move on to discussing other topics. Crowley allows himself to bask in the warmth of it. This house. These people. His angel. Freedom. Eleven years ago, he would never have dreamed of having this. Now, he has to constantly remind himself that this is real. This is _his_. Aziraphale settles beside him on the couch, telling a story about some Christmas years ago, and he lets himself relax against his soft warmth, chiming in to correct the angel when he mixes up some small point in the story.

He’s forgotten about the mistletoe over the door by the time they decide it’s time to go out for dinner. As the others head outside, he takes a moment to look around the room, allowing himself to feel the residual love and joy that will linger, now, for days. This, he decides, is more than enough. More than he could ever ask for. He turns, to find Aziraphale standing in the open doorway, waiting for him.

“Coming, Crowley?” he asks, offering his arm with that gentle smile.

Crowley swallows a lump in his throat, pushing down on that _want_ that rises up in him at the sight. Friends. Yes. He can do this. He takes Aziraphale’s arm, grateful he doesn’t blush easily when the angel’s smile widens into something bright and pleased.

“Ah-” Anathema says, when they start onto the porch. He stops, and she points to where the mistletoe still hangs above the door. “It’s tradition,” she says, mimicking his tone from earlier.

“Oh, ah, well.” He glances at Aziraphale, who stares back, wide-eyed.

“Now, now,” Shadwell says, “the lads nae-”

“Tradition,” Anathema repeats firmly. “You don’t kiss, you don’t come out.”

“Come on, Mr. Crowley! You can do it!” Adam shouts, the Them echoing his encouragement.

“Angel-” Crowley says, watching Aziraphale’s face. “I, ah. We don’t-”

Aziraphale smiles at him, eyes impossibly warm and open. “It’s alright, my dear. I don’t mind. And it _is_ tradition.”

“Tradition. Right.” He swallows past the lump in his throat.

“Kiss!” The Them start chanting. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Nine pairs of eyes watch him expectantly. There’s no getting out of this. Not without hurting Aziraphale’s feelings, now that the angel has agreed to it.

“Fine,” he sighs, grumbling to cover his nerves. “Since its tradition.”

He closes his eyes and leans in, aiming for Aziraphale’s cheek. But the angel moves as he does, shifting until their lips meet. Behind his glasses, Crowley’s eyes fly open in surprise. Aziraphale’s lips are warm and soft as the rest of him, slightly parted, and Crowley… Crowley _wants_. This. This right here. This is the one thing he’s wanted for as long as he can remember. He’s standing here, safe, warm, kissing his angel. And his angel is _kissing him back_.

And then, they break apart. Crowley starts to bring a hand to his lips, catching himself at the last minute and adjusting his glasses instead, making sure that not even a hint of yellow is showing to give him away.

“There now,” Aziraphale says, and it must be his imagination that the angel sounds as breathless as he feels. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He offers his arm again, and Crowley takes it automatically. He can’t help it though, if his eyes drift to Aziraphale’s lips. He tucks the memory of this moment away, storing it in his mind to return to later. He might never get another like it again, so he hoards it with all the other stolen moments he’s collected across the years.

“I… yeah. No, it wasn’t. Bad, that is. Ah. We should- we should get going.” He stumbles over his words and turns, leading Aziraphale down the steps, to where the cheerful chatter of their group surrounds them. He lets himself get swept away in it, shoving down the wanting, reminding himself he’s a fool for wishing for anything more. He doesn’t see the way the angel’s eyes linger on his face. The way his lips curve in a small, pleased smile. Or the look shared between Aziraphale and Anathema, a look that speaks of secrets and knowing and more plans to come.


	2. Day 2 - Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know how I'm capable of writing fluff. I've never managed it before without it turning to angst along the way. But this is staying on track for the most part! 
> 
> For those of you also reading The Truth Remains, don't worry! Next chapter is still on track for posting on time.

“C’mon, angel!” Crowley shouts, thundering down the stairs of their cottage and exploding out into the main living room. “It’s snowing!”

Aziraphale looks up to find him peering out their large front windows, bouncing on his feet like a small child. “Oh. The weather reports _had_ said it was meant to snow today.”

“Looks like we’re going to get a good six inches!” He turns to the angel, grinning. “Come on, want to go take a walk?”

“Right now?” Aziraphale had been planning to speak with Anathema regarding their plans for his next attempt at wooing Crowley. But Crowley was standing there, looking at him with that earnest expression in his eyes, and… he couldn’t say no. Not when there was such open, honest joy on the demon’s face. “Oh, alright.” He sighs. “Give me a moment.”

_Going for a walk with Crowley. Will call later_ , he texts to Anathema. A few seconds later, he gets her reply.

_If he gets cold, offer to share body-heat ;)_

“Who’s that?” Crowley asks him, leaning in to look at Aziraphale’s phone.

“Just Anathema,” he tells him. “She’s helping me plan our New Year’s party.”

Crowley makes a face. “Ugh. Better her than me. Come _on_ angel. I wanna go outside.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Alright, I’m coming my dear.” He miracles his coat into his hands and heads for the door. Crowley, he notices, makes very certain he’s through the door first. There won’t be a repeat of last night’s kiss under the mistletoe, it seems. Inwardly, he sighs. He had _hoped_ the kiss would surprise his demon into admitting his feelings, but when he’d pulled back his face had been just as inscrutable as ever. He hadn’t acted any different, but Aziraphale was _sure_ he’d been able to sense it during the kiss - that same overwhelming sense of _love_ he’d felt from the demon at various times throughout their long existence together. And Anathema had agreed - she’d seen it in his aura. Just for a moment, before the demon had managed to hide it away again. But it had been all the confirmation he needed. For thousands of years, he had loved him just as much. And now, he was finally free to do something about it.

“See! Snow!” Crowley dances out ahead of him, arms out, face turned up to the sky. Aziraphale chuckles, watching him. Sometimes his demon seems more corvid than serpent, with his love of mischief and bright shiny things. And, while serpents tended to hibernate in the cold, crows could sometimes be seen out playing in the snow.

“Bet you you can’t catch a snowflake on your tongue!” Crowley says, laughing, head tilted back and mouth open to catch the falling flakes.

Aziraphale laughs with him, sticking out his own tongue in a perfectly timed move, catching a snowflake just as the demon looks his way.

“I can, too,” he says, smiling, and does it again. “Come on, then. I thought you said you wanted a walk.” He reaches out and takes Crowley by the arm, leading him down their usual path, toward the beach.

They talk as they walk, like they always have. These days, though, the conversation tends to drift around their human friends, or the books Aziraphale is reading, or whatever popular media Crowley has been into recently. There’s nothing of Heaven in their talks. Nothing of Hell, either. They’re careful around the subject, still, as if speaking of a thing that can be summoned just by uttering its name. He doesn’t miss it. They are free now. No hammer hanging overhead, waiting to crash down. He is free to appreciate the way Crowley smiles. The glow of joy in his bright eyes, uncovered just now, glasses forgotten back inside the house. The way he moves, fluid, like bones are just an option and gravity is simply another thing to be ignored at will. The unguarded pleasure in his voice, as he tells Aziraphale the plot of the Golden Girls episode he’d been watching last night or his next plot to cause some chaos for some unlucky humans.

‘Offer to share body-heat’, Anathema had said. He watches Crowley, but his demon doesn’t seem to be cold at all. Still, perhaps he could try.

“Aren’t you cold, my dear?” he asks, looking him up and down, noting the thin fabric of his jacket, and even thinner shirt. “You’re not even wearing a proper scarf.”

Nah,” Crowley says, with a dismissive shrug. “Don’t get cold too easily. This is nothing compared to the lower circles of Hell.” He shivers, then frowns, turning an evaluating gaze on Aziraphale. “Why? Are you cold, angel?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to say no, then changes his mind. “A bit,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

“Do you want to go back?” The demon glances over his shoulder, to their small cottage, its windows glowing with warm light.

“No, no,” Aziraphale protests, not wanting the walk to end. “Not at all. I’m fine my dear, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Hmm.” Crowley’s bright eyes narrow, and he steps closer. “Well. Can’t have you getting cold. Here.” He takes off his own jacket, wrapping it around the angel’s shoulders. It’s surprisingly warm, for how thin the fabric appears, and, wearing it, Aziraphale can smell Crowley on it. That sweet and spicy smell that somehow reminds him of forest-fires and sage. “Better?”

The angel breathes in the scent of him, and it smells like home. “Much,” he says, though what he really wants is Crowley’s arm draped around him. Instead, he settles for walking beside him, arm in arm, like they have done so many times before. “Thank you, my dear.”

“No worries, angel,” Crowley tells him, and for just a moment he feels that surge of love once again. He can’t bring it up now. He knows better than that. Bringing it up will just make Crowley go skittish, send him running, and that’s the _last_ thing Aziraphale wants. He needs to wait, and work on his other plans to get his demon to admit how he truly feels. Even so, he promises himself that he will not end this year without having the conversation they’d been dancing around for six thousand years. He will not spend one more year letting time pass them by like it always has. If the end of the world has taught him anything, it’s that time is precious. And he does not wish to let a single moment more go to waste.


	3. Day 3 - Nutcracker

Crowley hates The Nutcracker. It’s not so much the music, which he’ll never admit he actually finds quite nice. It’s not even the ballet, which is usually fairly well choreographed, with enchanting scenery. No, what he hates is the god-blessed _story_. The idea that something cursed, something ugly and broken and abandoned, could be loved by someone good and kind and gentle. He hates it, because that’s not how the world works. It’s not how _his_ world works. And, while some days he can fool himself that that fact might change, for every day he has hope there is a day when he knows how foolish it is to even dream. Even if dreaming is a little easier these days.

Still, when Aziraphale gets them tickets to The Nutcracker Ballet, he can’t exactly refuse to go. So he miracles himself up a nice suit and drives them into London for the show. It goes about how he expects. The drive in is uneventful, though he does get a good scolding from the angel when he nearly hits a pedestrian. He lets Aziraphale off in front of the theater, and parks the Bentley close by. (In a no-parking zone, not that it matters. It won’t be towed and he doesn’t give a shit about tickets.) Then he joins his angel in the lobby, where they make their way to their seats.

They’ve come to this theater every year for the past three decades, but this year Aziraphale has forgone their usual seats near the orchestra for a private box.

“Woah, angel, going all-out this year, hmm?” Crowley asks, taking in the plush seats and perfect view of the entire stage.

Aziraphale coughs and smiles a little shyly at him. “Well, I thought, after preventing the end of the world and all, we deserved to treat ourselves a little.”

Crowley nods, clapping him on the shoulder and moving past him into the booth. He’s right. They do deserve to treat themselves, after everything they’ve been through.

The lights dim, and soon the music starts. It’s beautiful, as always, but Crowley finds his eyes straying from the stage to the angel seated next to him. Aziraphale is watching the performance, a look of wonder and joy on his face as the dancers move across the stage. Before, it had been so rare that he got to see him like this. This open, honest sense of enjoyment, without the threat of discovery constantly hanging over their heads. It’s more than he could ever have dreamed, just being able to sit here like this, unafraid, watching his angel allow himself to have fun. He turns his gaze back to the stage before Aziraphale can catch him staring, but can’t help but continue to sneak glances at him as the night wears on.

It’s sometime in the middle of the first act, when Aziraphale stretches, extending his arms out to the sides. When he relaxes, he leaves his left arm on the back of Crowley’s chair, resting against his shoulders. Crowley looks at him, startled, but the angel is still watching the ballet, seeming to not even notice what he’d just done. Crowley can’t help but notice. He feels warmth at every point of contact, like a line of fire across his back. He sits there, rigid, staring straight ahead and waiting for Aziraphale to remove his arm. He doesn’t. He leans forward during a particularly intense swell of music, his hand gripping Crowley’s shoulder, almost like he wants to pull him closer.

And, well, Crowley would think it’s a fluke. Except, when they return from intermission, Aziraphale does it again, settling down with his arm around Crowley’s shoulders. This time, though, he glances at him, and, well, that couldn’t _possibly_ be a blush. But he’s giving Crowley an unfamiliar smile, small and hesitant, but full of _hope_.

“Is- is this alright?” he asks, glancing at his arm. “I can move it, I just...”

“No, no,” Crowley says quickly, though the proximity is setting his nerves on fire with _want_. “It’s fine.”

Aziraphale’s smile widens at that, big and bright and happy. And Crowley can’t regret that, not at all. And… it’s funny. He should feel trapped by it, an arm around him, holding him in place. He doesn’t. He feels safe. And warm. And wanted. It’s… nice. And for just this night he allows himself to relax against the angel, leaning back into his arm. He lets himself feel everything, the thrum of his heart in his chest, the air moving through his lungs, the vibration of the music around him, and the warm and solid weight across his shoulders. Another memory, another moment to go into his hoard of moments, kept safe and cherished, perfect and rare and beautiful.


	4. Day 4 - Cranberry

There are very few foods that Aziraphale can unequivocally say he dislikes, but cranberries are one of them. It is, of course, just his luck that they are one of the few food items Crowley truly enjoys. So, of course, when he plans to make Crowley a romantic dinner, it has to include cranberries. And, it seems, they’re the one thing he can’t get a hold of.

“Oh bugger.” He’s glaring at the cabinets as if they, personally, have offended him.

“Angel?” Crowley pokes his head into the kitchen, eyes wide and concerned.

Aziraphale winces. Of all the times for Crowley to have come in, it had to be right then. “It’s nothing, my dear,” he says. “We’re just out of some ingredients I need.”

“Yeah? Which ones? I can run to the store, if you like.” The demon frowns at the jars and bags laid out on the table - everything Aziraphale needs to make a wonderful winter tortellini, minus the dried cranberries.

He hesitates, wondering if it still counts as a romantic meal if the intended recipient is sent out to get ingredients, then decides it doesn’t matter. He needs the cranberries. He does not have them. And miracled food always ends up tasting at least a little of ash.

“Oh, would you?” he asks, giving his demon a warm smile.

Crowley grins back at him, earnest and fond - an expression he’s been seeing more of lately, but will likely never tire of. “’Course. Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it,” the demon says.

“Well, thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale tells him. “I just need the one thing - a bag of dried cranberries.”

Crowley blinks. “Cranberries?”

“Cranberries,” he confirms, already turning back to his cookbook. He has to hurry if he wants to get the pasta dough done in time.

His demon doesn’t move from the doorway. “You _hate_ cranberries.”

“Yes dear,” the angel agrees. “But you don’t.”

“Yeah, but,” Crowley’s frowning at him now, leaning against the door frame and watching as he picks up a bag of flour. “Why not just leave them out then? Not like I’d notice.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “It’s what the recipe calls for. See?” He holds up his cookbook so the demon can read the ingredient list. “Right here. One cup of dried cranberries.”

“Yeah, but…” Crowley crosses the small room and leans in, a warm spot over Aziraphale’s shoulder, as he inspects the recipe. “That doesn’t mean you have to put them in.”

“True, I could use something else,” he says, keeping his hands busy with the flour so he won’t think about how Crowley’s face is right next to his, so close it would be easy to simply lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. He wants to. _Someone,_ does he want to. But he knows he has to wait. He has to get this right, or else his demon will run, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to find him if that happens. “But I was intending to make something _you_ would enjoy.” He doesn’t mention that this recipe uses only things he knows Crowley has expressed a preference for.

“That… _I_ _’d_ enjoy?” Crowley’s breath ghosts across his ear, his demon is so close, still examining the recipe in his cookbook. “Why?”

“Well…” Aziraphale sighs. “I was rather hoping that you’d eat with me tonight, instead of just watching like you always do.”

“Hoping that I’d… eat with you?” he asks, and only then does it dawn on Aziraphale what he’s just said.

“Obviously, you don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I just, well, you never order much of anything when we go out. And even when I cook you only ever have a few bites. So I thought if I used only things you like, you’d want to eat. And, and it’s not important. Really, it’s not, but I thought you’d enjoy sharing a meal. I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t wish to, of course. I just- just thought it would be nice. And-” He’s aware he’s repeating himself, babbling almost, but he can’t quite seem to stop.

“Angel.” Crowley reaches over and takes the flour from his hands, putting it down on the counter as the angel turns to face him. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble. All you had to do was ask.”

Aziraphale turns to watch his face, and for once that love he’s been sensing is plain to read in those beautiful golden-yellow eyes. Then the demon blinks, and that overwhelming love is drawn back, replaced by a simpler, but no less deep, sort of fondness.

“Then… would you share dinner with me tonight?” he asks quietly.

Crowley’s face breaks into a grin. “Sure. I’ll even help you cook it. Somewhere knows you’re hopeless with pasta,” he teases.

“Oh,” Aziraphale huffs at him, stepping back and picking up the flour again. “Like you could do better.”

His demon grabs the bag from his hand. “Oh, I think I can. At least, there’s a couple of nice old ladies in Italy who think so.” He laughs at Aziraphale’s incredulous look. “What? I spent a few years tempting them to open up a pasta shop. Nothing better to encourage gluttony than good food, you know. While I was there, they taught me all they knew.”

The angel’s jaw drops open, and he stares at his friend. “You. Learned pasta-making.”

Crowley only laughs at him. “If you’re _very_ good, I’ll even teach you how they do it.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon side-by-side in the kitchen, bickering happily over the pasta until it’s done. And then, they sit down together to share the meal. There’s no candle light, or romantic music, like Aziraphale had half-planned. Instead, there’s just the faint sound of waves in the distance. And the bright eyes, and brighter smile, of the most precious being in all the world to him. It is more, far more, than enough.


	5. Day 5 - Fire

Crowley has had many favorite places to nap, over the years. A bed of moss under the tree in Eden. A pile of cushions in the tower of Babel. A goose-down mattress in a Venetian home. A dark corner of Camelot’s stables. The couch in Aziraphale’s bookshop. Of them all, the chair by the fireplace in their little cottage is by far the best. It came with Aziraphale from the bookshop, and always smells wonderfully of cocoa and old books with the faintest taste of lightening and myrrh. Today it’s especially nice, with the fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth, warming his skin as he sinks back into the soft upholstery.

Aziraphale is out, running an errand he had insisted couldn’t wait, so Crowley takes advantage of the solitude and stretches out into his serpentine form. The warmth of the fire feels even better on his scales, soothing and comfortable, surrounded by the scent of ‘home’. He relaxes, twisting himself into a tight coil, dozing, until true sleep claims him. He doesn’t even notice when the angel returns, a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. He doesn’t hear Aziraphale’s soft sigh, or see the fond smile that settles on the angel’s face. He sleeps through the noise the angel makes when he accidentally knocks over a stack of books, twitching his tail only at the sharp clink of glass when he sets the bottle of wine down a bit too hard on the table.

“Here, now,” Aziraphale says softly, gentle hands caressing his scales, and even asleep the serpent leans into his warmth. Those same soft hands slide under his coils, lifting him up, only to resettle him onto the angel’s lap a moment later. He wakes halfway as he moves him, blinking one sleepy eye at Aziraphale, who runs a soothing hand along his neck. “Shh, sleep now my darling. I have you.”

Crowley lets out a small, contented hiss and closes his eyes once again. The blaze of the fire heats his scales, while the gentler warmth of his angel surrounds him, steady and solid, real. The only sounds he can hear are the crackle of burning logs, the rasp of skin against scales as Aziraphale continues to stroke his back, and the angel’s rhythmic breathing. In all his long, long life, he has never been so content. Aziraphale’s hand slows until he leaves it resting on Crowley’s iridescent scales, just below his head. The angel’s breathing slows as he relaxes in the warmth of the fire. His eyes slip closed. And soon he, too is asleep.

If you were to look in on the cottage then, you would see a picture of contentment. A pair of empty wine glasses, forgotten on the table next to an aged red wine. An angel, sound asleep, in a large comfortable easy chair. A serpent coiled around himself, dozing on his knees. A fire crackling merrily in the hearth, casting the room in warm red-yellow light. In this moment, there is no pain. No fading echoes of hurt or anger. Here, in this place that is nothing like Heaven and the opposite of Hell, there is nothing at all of fear. There is only love. Peace. And a hope for an even brighter tomorrow.


End file.
